The grand, opulent lobby of The Aurelian, just hours ago a testament to luxury and leisure, had transformed into a chaotic maelstrom. The air, once scented with designer perfumes, now reeked of fear, sweat, and the sharp tang of panic. Crystal chandeliers, moments before glittering with serene elegance, now reflected the frenzied scramble of humanity. People, stripped of their veneer of civility, surged like a frantic tide, some screaming, some weeping, all clamoring for exits, for information, for anything to make sense of the horrifying blue screen that had vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Security guards, overwhelmed and clearly as terrified as the civilians, were trying, futilely, to maintain order. It was a madhouse, and Randy, Zaki, Vance, and Kaz found themselves right in the eye of the storm.
They had fashioned crude weapons from their suite. The heavy, polished brass lamp had been unscrewed from its base, now a formidable club in Vance's hand. Zaki, ever practical, had snapped off the sturdy legs from one of the small end tables, wielding two of them like improvised batons. Randy, with a gleam in his eye, had detached the long, flexible shower hose, which he now swung with surprising dexterity, promising to "entangle the bad guys in a watery embrace!" Kaz, of course, needed no improvisation; his brass knuckles were already firmly strapped to his hand, gleaming ominously.
They descended from their gilded cage, the luxurious elevator a surreal bubble carrying them into the raw, desperate reality below. As the doors hissed open onto the ground floor, the cacophony swallowed them whole. Randy, his white tuxedo miraculously still pristine, even after a night of gambling and a morning of existential dread, surveyed the scene with a strange, detached amusement. Zaki's jaw was set, his engineer's mind already running calculations for resource acquisition. Vance's eyes, once hardened by war, now held a fresh, icy glint of determination.
Kaz, however, was in his element. This wasn't a video game to him; this was Friday night on the wrong side of the tracks, just on a global scale. His pulse thrummed with a savage exhilaration. He looked at his friends, a dangerous grin splitting his face.
"Alright, look," Kaz began, his voice surprisingly calm amidst the chaos, "I'll hit the deli across the street by myself. They'll have packaged stuff, less chance of a total brawl over perishable goods."
Vance nodded. "Good call. Zaki and I will try the Target or the Walmart. More variety, but definitely more competition. We'll need to move fast." He turned to Zaki, who gave a firm nod of agreement.
Randy, ever the wildcard, just smiled, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "Excellent! Excellent! And I, my valiant comrades, shall be back later! My first order of business is to protect and upgrade our magnificent chariot! This RV, my friends, is not just a mode of transportation; it's a mobile fortress! A rolling home! A tactical base! It can move, it can hide, it can be… whatever we need it to be! Plus," he added with a wink, "it needs a fresh coat of glitter."
Zaki just shook his head, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. Vance merely grunted, a sound that could have meant agreement or resigned acceptance. Kaz, though, just clapped Randy on the shoulder. "You do you, Tuxedo Man. Just make sure it still has gas for the next getaway."
With their plans in motion, they split, each heading towards their self-assigned tasks, a disparate band united by a shared, terrifying destiny.
---
#### Kaz's POV: The Deli Raid
Kaz moved with the predatory grace of a wolf separating a lamb from the flock. His black leather jacket, spiked and worn, rippled as he stalked through the panicked crowd. His boots thudded with purpose, each step carrying him closer to his target: a large, upscale deli down the street, its plate-glass windows already spiderwebbed with cracks. People were flowing *out* of stores, not in, most of them too stunned or terrified to do anything but flee. That suited Kaz just fine. Fewer competitors.
He took a quick glance at his status screen, which flickered into existence before his eyes, almost as if reading his mind.
**- Status Window: Kaz -**
**Name:** Kazmee
**Class:** To Be Determined
**Level:** 3
**Experience:** 167/256 (You killed a lot despite living a calm lifestyle)
**Vitals**
* **Health (HP):** 29/29
* **Mana (MP):** 7/7 (For basic magical spells or abilities when you get them)
* **Stamina (SP):** 20/20 (For physical actions like sprinting or dodging with great effort beyond normal human limits)
**Attributes**
* **Strength (STR):** 29 (Physical power, damage with melee weapons) *Oh yeah, you loved fighting, didn't you, little thug?*
* **Dexterity (DEX):** 13 (Agility, evasion, accuracy with ranged weapons) *Sheesh, you're agile.*
* **Constitution (CON):** 9 (HP.)
* **Intelligence (INT):** 5 (Spell power, mana capacity, knowledge-based skills) *Well, you're not stupid.*
* **Wisdom (WIS):** 8 (Perception, willpower, resistance to mental effects) *Hmm, you're pretty wise.*
* **Charisma (CHA):** 16 (Social influence, persuasion, leadership)
**Skills**
* **Basic Melee:** Slightly Above Amateur (Can wield basic swords, daggers, etc.)
* **Survival:** Intermediate (You see everyone beneath you and as tools) *(Ohhh, you're ruthless.)*
**Equipment**
* **Weapon:** Brass Knuckles (Damage: +3-9, designed with multiple Ace Luck effect on 7th strike)
* **Armor:** Black Leather Pants (Common) (Defense: +4)
* Black Leather Jacket (Common) (Defense: +5)
* **Accessories:**
* Biker Boots (+5 in movement and stability)
**Status Effects:** None
Kaz's smirk widened as he read the comments attached to his stats. "*Oh yeah, you loved fighting, didn't you, little thug?*" he muttered under his breath, a dark chuckle escaping his lips. The system seemed to know him too well. "*You see everyone beneath you and as tools.*" He glanced at the terrified faces around him, the desperation etched into their features. He saw fear, weakness, and opportunity. The system wasn't wrong.
He reached the deli's entrance, which had been smashed open, a shattered pane of glass dangling precariously from the frame. Two men, their faces contorted in a desperate struggle, were grappling over a carton of milk near the entrance. They hadn't seen Kaz approach.
Kaz didn't hesitate. He lunged, his brass knuckles flashing. His right fist connected with the jaw of the first man, a sickening *crack* echoing in the suddenly silent deli. A small, digital counter materialized over his knuckles, displaying the number **[1]**. The man crumpled, unconscious before he hit the ground. The second man, startled, stumbled backward, but Kaz was already on him. He slammed his left fist into the man's stomach, a gut-wrenching blow that doubled him over. **[2]**. A swift uppercut to the chin. **[3]**. The man staggered, eyes rolling. Kaz pivoted, a powerful right hook slamming into the side of his head. **[4]**. The man spun, dazed. Kaz followed up with a brutal knee to the groin. **[5]**. A final, decisive punch to the temple. **[6]**. The second man dropped like a stone.
Kaz grinned like a madman, his eyes gleaming with a predatory satisfaction. He moved on, deeper into the deli, his knuckles still counting. He found two more men trying to pry open a display case filled with expensive cheeses. They were larger, tougher-looking, but they were no match for Kaz's savage efficiency. His fists became blurs, a whirlwind of brass and bone. He ducked under a wild swing, landed a sharp jab to the ribs, then another to the solar plexus. The numbers on his knuckles ticked up: **[7]**.
As his seventh strike landed, an ethereal **Ace of Diamonds** symbol flashed over his knuckles, followed by a series of swift, almost invisible cuts appearing randomly on the target's body—a shallow gash on his cheek, a deeper slice on his forearm, a thin line across his bicep. The man screamed, clutching his wounds, his eyes wide with terror. His partner, seeing the inexplicable phenomenon, froze, fear seizing him far more effectively than any physical blow could have. Kaz finished him quickly, a few more brutal, precise punches sending him to the ground.
Kaz surveyed the growing pile of unconscious bodies at his feet, his breath coming in short, harsh pants. He felt… *good*. Better than good. He felt alive. The rage, the frustration, the cynicism that usually simmered beneath his surface, it was all burning off in the heat of combat. He was a shark in a tank of goldfish, and he reveled in it.
The sound of his brutal efficiency had drawn attention. People, who had been timidly trying to slip past the deli's entrance, now stopped, staring at him. Wordlessly, they backed away from the chaos he had created, their eyes wide with fear and a reluctant respect.
As he began to move towards the shelves, intent on gathering what he needed, a small group of desperate survivors, perhaps five or six, cautiously approached the deli's shattered entrance. They saw the unconscious bodies, saw Kaz, his knuckles still faintly gleaming, and they hesitated.
"P-please," a man stammered, clutching a tattered grocery bag. "We… we just need some supplies. Food. My kids are hungry."
Kaz turned, his grin wide, unsettling. He kicked lightly at one of the prone bodies, sending it skidding slightly. His brass knuckles, still faintly stained with fresh blood, glinted in the dim deli light.
"Why should I help you?" Kaz asked, his voice low, almost conversational, but laced with a dangerous edge. "What do I gain? I see no problem in taking everything for myself. I'm strong. You're weak. That's how this works, isn't it?"
The group looked at each other, desperate. A woman, her face streaked with tears, stepped forward. "We… we can offer you things. We have skills. We can help you carry. We can share information."
Kaz considered this, his eyes sweeping over their faces, weighing their usefulness. "Information, huh?" he mused. "That might be useful later. But right now, I don't see anything you have that I can't just take." He let the silence hang, relishing their fear.
Just then, a figure pushed through the small crowd behind them. She was stunning, a model-like woman with long, dark hair, dressed in what looked like designer athleisure. Her eyes, even in the midst of panic, held a predatory allure. She walked directly up to Kaz, her hips swaying subtly, a practiced seduction in her every move.
"Hello there, big boy," she purred, her voice husky. Her hand, perfectly manicured, reached out, lightly touching his arm. "You look like you know how to handle yourself. A man like you shouldn't be alone. Maybe we could… *negotiate* a deal?" Her fingers traced the muscles in his forearm, just above his brass knuckles.
Kaz watched her, his grin widening, a flicker of something in his eyes. He saw the play, recognized the desperate gambit. It was an old trick, one he had seen a thousand times in a thousand different forms. And he appreciated the effort.
"I know what you're doing, princess," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, yet still laced with his characteristic drawl. He gently, but firmly, removed her hand from his arm. "But I can appreciate the hustle. You've got guts. And a pretty face."
He looked at the group of trembling survivors, then back at the model. "Alright. Here's the deal. I'm taking everything I can carry. Everything in three shopping carts. Once I'm done, and I'm out of here, you can have the rest. Don't touch anything until I'm gone. Understood?"
The group nodded, relieved. The model, though her seduction had failed, looked at him with a newfound respect. She hadn't expected mercy, or even a deal.
Kaz grabbed three abandoned shopping carts from a corner of the deli. He moved with a speed and efficiency that stunned the onlookers, systematically filling the carts with high-energy protein bars, bottled water, medical supplies from a small pharmacy section, and, to his credit, a few bags of chips and some candy bars. He didn't bother with the fresh produce or the perishables; he was thinking long-term survival, not a gourmet meal.
He worked quickly, his movements precise and economical. In less than twenty minutes, he had three carts overflowing with essential supplies. He grabbed a handful of elastic straps from a shelf and expertly secured the items in the carts, ready for transport.
"Alright," he announced, his voice echoing through the relatively quiet deli. "I'm out. Everything else is yours."
He pushed the three carts out of the deli's shattered entrance, ignoring the grateful murmurs and the stunned silence he left behind. The streets outside were still chaotic, but he moved through them with a new sense of purpose, a new kind of confidence. His brass knuckles felt heavier, more powerful, and his level 3 seemed to hum with a quiet promise of future carnage.
He knew what he was. He was a survivor. He was a shark. And in this new world, that was all that mattered.